Take It From His Whisper
by Konstantya
Summary: She knew what it was like to fret over a younger sibling, after all. Folken comes to Eries to make a last request of sorts. (Driving Circles Around Me, Part 3.)


General Note: I'm only going to reformat my fics so much when this site is the one at fault. So if the formatting is weird, please check out my profile for more info. Thank you.

A/N: This fic is part of the _Driving Circles Around Me_ arc, which you can find more about in my profile.

Takes place near the end of the series, after Folken defects.

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**Take It From His Whisper  
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It was with a long sigh that Eries Aston officially retired for the evening. Quietly, she shut her door, and in the privacy of her bedchamber, leaned back against the length of wood, momentarily relishing the sturdy feel of it at her back.

Just barely before ten o'clock. Two hours to midnight. Not bad, considering. Maybe she'd even get something resembling a full night's sleep, if she was lucky. Jichia knew she could use it at this point.

Dinner had run later than usual that evening, due in no small part to the visiting Duke Lombard from Daedalus. Oh, he was by no means a boring man, thankfully (Eries had had to deal with more than enough of _those,_ in her day), but he was very much a _loquacious_ man, and it hadn't been until after nine o'clock that dinner had formally concluded. After that, she'd gone straight to spend some time with her father, and though he'd already been asleep, familial devotion had forced her to stay for a full half-hour before practicality—and one of the attending nurses—had convinced her to at least try to get some sleep, herself. No sense in _two_ members of the royal family falling ill, after all. And so there she was.

Mustering her energy, she pushed herself away from the door and made her way over to her vanity, gingerly seating herself on the cushioned stool and setting about to preparing herself for bed. She had already taken off her jewelry and was halfway through brushing her hair when there was a knock at the door. Eries paused, mid-stroke.

Millerna? Or maybe a nurse, come to tell her her father had taken a turn for the worse…?

Vehemently, she shook off the thought, and the chill that had come with it. No. The knock would have been more urgent, if it was something as dire as that. So. Millerna, probably. Maybe even Dryden, depending. The man had a tendency to keep late nights, and had solicited her advice on more than a couple occasions. She wouldn't put it past him to be buried up to his eyeglasses in paperwork when most normal people were getting ready for bed. Well. So much for that full night's sleep she'd been hoping for. With a resigned little sigh, she set her brush down and went to open the door.

And blinked upon seeing who had come to call on her.

Not Millerna. Not Dryden. Not even a nurse—and as thankful as she was for that, a part of her had to wonder if a nurse wouldn't have been easier to deal with.

"Lord Folken," she said, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice.

"Princess Eries." He nodded in greeting. "I apologize for coming by at such a late hour, but there is something about which I wish to speak with you. May I come in?"

She stood there in the doorway, momentarily stunned, and he must have seen the uncertainty on her face, because his tone softened, and he added, "Please," and what was she to do at that point but to receive him? Despite what some of the assembly members whispered when they thought she couldn't hear, she wasn't _completely_ heartless, after all. And so it was with an odd feeling of self-removal that she stepped aside and gestured for him to enter. With a courteous bow of his head, he did so, and she carefully shut the door behind him.

It wasn't that she hadn't seen him since his initial arrival in Asturia—it was just that she hadn't seen _much_ of him. After he had officially been granted asylum, he had been terribly busy—with the war council, with the salvage crews, with the makeshift laboratory he'd been permitted—and, to be fair, so had she. With war on the horizon, and Zaibach's true intentions brought to light, diplomats from just about every other country on Gaea had been flocking to and from Palas (Duke Lombard was merely the latest in a long, seemingly never-ending stream of them), and though her sister was, to her credit, taking her responsibilities as heir a little bit more seriously, she was still inexperienced, and most of the duties traditionally reserved for the queen still fell to her. Aside from that first day, they hadn't actually exchanged more than perfunctory acknowledgements in passing. And so for him to suddenly show up at her door was, well…_unexpected,_ to say the least.

Was she pleased to see him? Displeased? She wasn't sure if either word was entirely accurate. He'd been invited to more than a few dinners in the time he'd been there, she knew, and a small part of her was disappointed when the response inevitably came back as a respectful declination—she would admit that much. (Never mind the fact that she knew why he did it, and, if asked, would agree that it was probably for the best. After all, the invitations had been issued more out of courtesy than a genuine desire to consort with the man; he was valued for the knowledge he had brought with him, there was no doubt about that, but few had warmed up to him as a person.)

Still, dinners were, at the end of the day, just dinners. Social affairs with the safeties of small talk and other people, and the ability to extricate one's self from the table with the easy lie of an aching head or an early morning, if worst came to absolute worst. Personal calls to private chambers were different beasts entirely, and Eries admitted that she found his presence a little unnerving.

He was by no means the largest man she'd ever met, not even the tallest, but his height was still formidable, and the room suddenly seemed smaller because of it. She hovered near an upholstered chair, one hand resting on the back of it, and wondered if shifting so as to place the piece of furniture between them would be too obviously defensive. Immediately, she brushed the idea off, incensed by the rudeness of her own thought process. What was she worried about, anyway? That he'd attack her? Folken Fanel was a lot of things, and maybe not all of them admirable, but he wasn't the type who went around randomly assaulting women, that was for sure. The least she could do was listen to what he had to say without treating him like some sort of unscrupulous monster; he had enough people avoiding him in the halls and giving him suspicious glances as it was.

Silently, she waited. Words had never been a problem for him, and over the past few weeks in particular, his oratory skills had seen considerable usage, and it was in this way that he gathered himself in the middle of the room—as if he was about to make a speech. Eventually, after a few seconds, he began:

"When this war is over, my brother will return to Fanelia to rebuild. He has a good heart, and I have no doubt that he will make a good king. But he is very young, and inexperienced when it comes to politics.

"I hope," he continued, "that I am not being too forward when I ask that he be allowed to come to you for advice, should he need it."

She paused a moment to take his words in. To be sure, it wasn't an unreasonable request—she would even go so far as to call it a _noble_ request—but as far as why he was requesting it in the first place… She peered at him curiously. "You speak as if you won't be around to give the advice, yourself."

He looked off to the side. "I won't be," he admitted. His eyebrows twitched towards each other. And then, the reason why: "I'm dying."

Eries froze, eyes fixed on him, and something cold and heavy settled in her stomach. She watched him carefully, almost as if to look away would cause him to disappear, right then and there, and rather than offer any sympathy or condolences, simply asked, "How do you know?"

"My wings. They've turned black."

She blinked at that. Almost visibly started. Of course, she'd heard the rumors, even before she'd visited Fanelia as a child. That the queen hailed from the cursed people of legend. That the princes were half-blood _something_-or-others. And while their coloring might have been unusual—Folken's especially—they still _looked_ human, and it had been easy enough to dismiss such rumors as just that: rumors. Exaggerations at the very most. Hearing that the man had a pair of _wings_ stashed somewhere on him was…well…was…

She pushed the thought away. She'd think about it later. Or maybe she wouldn't. At any rate, it really wasn't the pertinent subject at hand.

"Does anyone else know?" she asked. Damage control first. There was already enough death to worry about—and there would be plenty more before this was all over. No need to throw one _more_ impending loss on everyone's collective consciousness, if it was at all avoidable. And the thought that he had come to her first, that he had specifically sought _her_ confidence…

"Van," he answered. "Hitomi has seen them, though I don't know if she understands the significance of their color." He paused briefly, and then turned back to her. "I realize this is a lot to ask of you, and that I really have no right to be making such a request, but…" He broke the gaze again and trailed off uncharacteristically.

"…You're worried about him," she finished. Because she knew what it was like to fret over a younger sibling, after all. His shoulders relaxed, and some of the tension seemed to ease from his face with the knowledge that she understood. A breath pushed out of him—a dry ghost of a laugh.

"I've always worried about him," he admitted, and the words were surprisingly candid. "It was the whole reason I started down this path in the first place." Almost unconsciously, his left hand went to his right arm, and he curled his claw into a fist, as if he was remembering the feel of flesh and bone instead of steel and cable. Eries watched, morbidly fascinated, and couldn't help but recall how those mechanical fingers had felt around her wrist. Her cheeks flushed, and suddenly she wondered what exactly she'd been thinking, letting a man into her bedchamber this late at night. Oh, it was a good thing the both of them were a far cry away from being labeled as flirts.

Wasn't it?

She swallowed and looked off to the side. When she felt composed again, she turned back. His features had since reverted to their usual firm impassiveness, and his mechanical arm was tucked back behind the cloth that sat around his shoulders, safe and out of sight. A part of her had to wonder what had compelled him to reveal it in the first place. She found it hard to believe he had simply forgotten himself for a moment; he was too self-conscious of the artificial appendage for that, too deliberate in his behavior. So was it because she had seen it before? Or did he maybe, actually, feel somewhat comfortable around her, to the point where he felt he could let his guard down, if only momentarily?

Something ached dully in her chest with the knowledge that he wasn't going to be a part of this world much longer.

She pushed the feeling away, as she had so many others before. There were bigger issues to worry about than her own vague sense of sorrow. More important issues. And considering the circumstances, the least she could do… The least she could do…

She swallowed and finally spoke: "I promise you that your brother shall have my ear if he asks for it. And if he doesn't," she added sincerely, "then I promise I will offer it if I feel it is in Fanelia's best interests."

A great sigh of relief pushed out of him, and he strode forward, taking one of her hands in his before she could even think to back up or otherwise deter him. His fingers pressed into hers, long and callused, and she should have reprimanded him for daring to be so bold, she knew. Should have snatched her hand away and demanded he leave that very instant, but there was an urgency in his grip that stopped her. A desperation, almost, as if this was the only way he could accurately convey his gratitude, and for a fearful moment, she worried that he might even go so far as to kiss the back of her hand.

He didn't, thankfully, but there was a warmth in his touch, an intensity in his eyes, that heated her cheeks up all the same, and she suddenly wished she still had her ear-cuffs on. She felt strangely naked and vulnerable without their familiar weight. Too fragile, too exposed, too…

"Thank you," he whispered.

She could only nod in return, her heart caught in her throat. He continued to look at her for a moment, almost as if he wanted to say something else or do something else—but he only gave her fingers one last little squeeze, bowed swiftly, respectfully, and then took his leave. The door closed with a soft _click_, and she finally let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

She grabbed the back of the chair next to her, fingers trembling, but after a moment and a couple deep lungfuls of air, shook off the unsteadiness and regained her composure. Resolutely, she went to her door, locked it (she was done with visitors for the night, that was certain), went to her ewer and wash basin, splashed her face with water until she was almost gasping from the cold, dried her skin downright savagely with the towel, and then, only then, with a brisk breath and perfect poise, reseated herself at her vanity.

Her reflection stared back at her, flushed and haunted, and it was with a defeated despair that Eries realized—full night be damned—she'd be lucky if she got any sleep at _all_ that night.

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A/N: Oh, hey, look at that—I finally got that arc officially going! Previously written fics have been edited to reflect this accordingly.

And…miraculously, I don't think I have any crazy author's notes this time around. (Other than to say, Folken, you _honestly_ couldn't find a better time to talk to Eries about that? I know it was all private and confidential, but you couldn't have, like, scheduled a meeting or something? You just _had_ to show up at her door at ten o'clock at night? I am onto you, son. I am onto you _so hard_.)

As always, thanks for reading. ;)


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